Jake's POV
Doctor confirmed what I already knew—ankle sprain, walking cast, stay off it for a week. Like that was an option when a ranch needed running.
"I have cattle to feed. Fences to check. Can't just sit around."
"Then turn a week into three." He was unsympathetic. "Your choice. Rest now or regret it later."
Adison spoke before I could argue. "He'll rest. I'll handle the ranch."
Looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "You'll handle—"
"Yes." That tone. The one that said arguing was pointless. "Tommy can help. I've been here six weeks. I know how things work."
The doctor looked amused. "Sounds like the decision's been made."
It had. Whether I liked it or not.
First morning, she was up at five. Watched through the window as she met Tommy in the yard, clipboard in hand, talking through schedules like she'd been doing it for years.
She'd pulled her hair into a practical ponytail, wore jeans I'd seen her mend herself last week, and moved with purpose that had nothing to do with proving anything anymore.
She didn't ask for input. Just handled it.
Called Tommy around noon to check in. "How's she doing?"
"Honestly, boss? Better than you on a good day. She noticed the water trough in the east pasture was leaking before I did. Already ordered the part."
Hung up feeling something complicated in my chest.
By afternoon, she came in to check on me. Found me trying to review feed invoices one-handed while balancing an ice pack.
"What are you doing?" She took the papers from me without asking.
"My job."
"Your job is healing. Mine is keeping this place running." She scanned the invoice, frowned. "They overcharged again. I'll call them."
"Adison—"
"Jake." She met my eyes. "Let me do this. You've been taking care of everyone else for twenty years. Let someone take care of you for once."
The way she said it. Soft but firm. Like she saw straight through every wall I'd ever built.
"Two days," I muttered. "Then I'm back to work."
"Two days." She kissed my forehead—casual, natural, like we'd been doing this forever. "Rest. Doctor's orders."
She had it covered—feed schedules, equipment maintenance, even noticed the north fence needed replacing before I'd mentioned it. Tommy said she was "scary efficient" and "kind of terrifying in the best way."
The cooking improved too. That disaster stew was apparently a learning curve. Now she made actual meals—nothing fancy, but good. Real food that stuck to your ribs. Asked Tommy for his mom's chili recipe and nailed it on the first try.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" I asked over dinner that night.
"Learn what?"
"All of it. Managing the ranch. Cooking. Taking charge."
She shrugged. "You taught me the ranch part. The cooking I figured out because watching you eat frozen dinners was depressing." Her eyes found mine. "And taking charge? I've always known how. Just never had a reason to before."
Something about that gutted me. The waste of it. All those years of her being told to sit still and look pretty when she had this inside her the whole time.
Second morning, I caught her wearing one of my work shirts. Sleeves rolled up, collar open, hem hitting her mid-thigh because she was so much smaller than me. She'd come in from morning chores covered in dust, hair escaping its tie, looking more real than she ever had in designer clothes.
"You're staring," she said without turning around.
"Observing."
"That's just staring with better PR." But she smiled. "What?"
What was I supposed to say? That watching her transform was messing with my head? That the spoiled brat I'd expected to fail had become someone I couldn't imagine the ranch without?
"Nothing. Just impressed."
"High praise from Jake Sullivan." She checked my forehead for fever, fingers gentle against my skin. "You're tired. Go rest. I'll handle everything."
"Adison—"
"Nope. Rest. That's an order."
Since when did I take orders on my own ranch? Since she decided she was in charge, apparently.
Went to my room because arguing with her was pointless. Lay there listening to her voice outside, the easy confidence in how she directed Tommy, solved problems, handled things I'd been doing alone for two decades.
Fell asleep to the smell of whatever she was cooking and woke up two hours later to her sitting on the edge of my bed with a plate.
"Eat." She set it on my lap. "Then sleep more. You look like hell."
"Romantic."
"Honest." But her hand found my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You need rest, Jake. Real rest. Let me worry about everything else."
The tenderness in her touch. The way she looked at me—not like I was old or damaged or too complicated. Just like I was hers and she was going to take care of me whether I liked it or not.
I was so fucking gone for this woman.
That afternoon, I admitted something I'd been avoiding.
I didn't just want her to stay for the remaining week before Richard came to collect her. I wanted her to stay period. Wanted her in my kitchen. In my barn. In my bed every night and my life every day.
Wanted her. Full stop.
More than that—I was in love with her. Completely. The kind of love I hadn't felt since Elena.
She'd taken the best parts of both her parents—Richard's steel spine and strategic mind, Elena's warmth and brilliant curiosity—and forged herself into someone entirely her own. Someone who could run a ranch and quote Cormac McCarthy and look at me like I was worth fighting for.
And the terrifying part? She was fighting for me. For us. For this life we were building in the spaces between work and touch and whispered confessions in the dark.
But she deserved to know the truth. All of it.
Why this scared me so much. Why her father's betrayal would cut so deep. Why I'd spent weeks pushing her away even when every part of me wanted to pull her close.
She deserved to know about Elena. About what I'd lost and why I'd convinced myself I'd never get it back.
If we were doing this—really doing this—she needed to understand the ghosts I'd been carrying and why letting her in meant risking everything I'd spent twenty years protecting myself from.
We hardly had one week left before Richard showed up. One week before everything got complicated and real decisions had to be made.
She needed to know what she was choosing. Who she was choosing.
Evening came soft and golden. Found her on the porch, finished with work, showered, sitting in my chair watching the sunset. She'd changed into clean jeans and one of my flannel shirts she'd claimed as hers. Hair still damp, face bare, looking like she belonged there more than I did.
"Hey." She turned, face soft in the fading light. "Should you be up?"
"Technically no. But I had an idea."
"Those are dangerous."
"Campfire picnic. Tonight. Want to cook something together, sit outside, talk."
Her expression shifted. Careful. Reading between the lines like she always did. "Talk about what?"
"About your mom. About Richard. About why this scares me so much."
She studied my face, and I watched her piece it together. Whatever she saw there made her eyes go soft and something else—understanding maybe, or acceptance of what was coming.
"You're going to tell me everything."
"Yeah. You deserve to know. Especially if we're doing this for real."
"Are we? Doing this for real?"
"I want to." Raw. Terrifying. Necessary. "But you need to know the history first. All of it. And then—" I stopped. "Then you can decide if this is still what you want."
She stood, crossed to me, and her hands found my face. Warm palms against my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, touching me like I was something worth holding onto.
"Jake Sullivan. I already know what I want. But if you need to tell me, I'm listening." Her thumb brushed my jaw. "Always."
The way she looked at me. Like I was something worth keeping. Like whatever I was about to say wouldn't change that.
"Campfire at eight," I said. "I'll handle the fire. You handle the food."
"Deal." She kissed me—soft and sure and full of something that felt dangerously close to forever. "And Jake? Whatever you tell me tonight? It's not going to change how I feel about you."
She pulled back, headed inside to start prepping dinner, and I watched her go.
But she didn't know the whole story yet.
And after tonight, she would.